Wow. It’s hard to know what to catch up on since it’s been about a month since I’ve blogged. Although I don’t like the random list of events approach I’ll throw that in to give an idea of what’s been keeping me from the internet, and much time to catch up at all!
At the end of October we had our vacation, in which I spent a beautiful and adventurous 5 days in Belize with 5 girls from my program. A few highlights:
I had a brief (and slightly less threatening but nevertheless stressful) experience as an apparent illegal immigrant in Guatemala (story later…) swam with headlamps through a cave, held a boa constrictor around my neck, survived a 360 degree flip/face-plant while tubing with an overly enthusiastic Belizean guy, visited Mayan ruins, snorkeled, enjoyed the randomness of conversations with fellow hostel guests (mostly from France and Germany) and realized that Belize by far beats El Salvador as the hottest country I have yet to visit (didn’t think it was possible…)
The following weeks filled up with classes, soccer, praxis days, reflections, and what seemed like less and less time to really think about what is happening. My reflection time happens on the grimy walk to the UCA, in quick, cold showers, and on long bus rides to Mariona-passing by tiny garage like homes and long reaching fields of sugar cane.
Before I knew it my dear friend Maggie was here to visit me! It seemed odd to look back over the semester; I had always held this far off image of the day I’d have a visitor—when I would be the one sharing this place rather than the one with all the questions, the day I would stand with my American family and Salvadoran one in the same space. She arrived on the day of the Casa talent show, which felt like the perfect summary of my experience in community here. There were goofy group dances (including a perfect group rendition of the dance at the end of the movie Little Miss Sunshine) original poetry, live music, and even some unexpected drag queens. My house (all women) wrote and performed our own spoken word poem (like slam poetry) about our experience here, which brought down the house. The day before the show I had honestly believed I could get away with not opting to sing anything at the show, but the women in my house wouldn’t let me get away with it that easy. I had sat around trying to think of what I could possibly force myself to sing, knowing that I would have no accompaniment or time to prepare (not to mention that singing in front of groups is still high on my fear list.) What I really love about being here is I’ve adopted more of a willingness to do things that the little voice in my head thinks are just a little too scary (see the aforementioned swimming in cave/boa constrictor encounter) Now, unless a part of me screams “that is a terrible idea!” I can hear another little voice that says “why not?” –and I must say, we are starting to chat quiet often.
So in the end I stood up before a much larger crowd that I had anticipated (probably about 60 people, US and Salvadoran students alike) and in nervous Spanish explained the meaning of the song I chose to sing, “May I suggest” by Susan Werner. I remember looking out to Maggie, and all of my close friends here who were just smiling as I sang—and as nervous as I was, I was never so happy to share a song.
Just two days after Maggie’s departure my dad flew in on his way home from Uruguay to join me and my community for the activities in memory for the Jesuit martyrs of the UCA. Again, I had the joy of getting to share this space—my friends here eagerly awaited the arrival of the famous “Frank” and my dad finally got to meet my heroic meditation guru, Oti, and Salvadoran father-figure, Lolo, among others. It felt surreal to finally be walking through the streets around the UCA with my dad and eight thousand Salvadorans holding candles and singing. Earlier on in the day I had been informed that I was picked to represent my program by reading a petition at the vigil mass. A part of the old Maura voice said that you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to read in Spanish in front of 8 thousand people at the most important mass of the year, but luckily another part realized that it was more than an honor, but an incredible gift to be able to take part in that—such an amazing gift that being terrified didn’t justify refusing. Although in that moment I was entirely too afraid to look out from the stage into that mass of people-I stepped off and walked back into the crowd feeling more a part of it than I ever could have imagined.
Both of my years at SJU I have travelled to the vigil in Georgia on this same week in remembrance of the martyrs in El Salvador. I remember feeling this pull to come here, to be even closer to that beautiful remembrance of the lives lost in this country- and the hope found in that sacrifice. Finally being present for those events was amazing, but I realized that what meant most was that the people here have been showing me how to remember the martyrs every day since I’ve arrived. I think our tendency in the US is to create one special day that highlights something but forget to live that out in the everyday. Here, the martyrs faces are painted on the murals we pass on the highway and their names are sung in every popular song—Romero’s face is framed on every tiny kitchen wall, it smiles back at me from t-shirts and prayer cards. “La esperanza de los martires,” the hope of the martyrs, is a Salvadoran favorite phrase…it seems to be the air that people breathe here. Twenty years after the deaths of the Jesuits it seems like life here is still so hard for so many people, but instead of giving in it seems the people are even more willing to pick up that cross of the martyrs and carry it for each other. (This seems a little ambiguous and cheesy…I’ll explain a bit…)
The week that the worst of the floods hit El Salvador we started getting a lot of calls and messages asking if everyone in the program was OK. I remember being surprised, because I hadn’t even thought to call and reassure anyone that I was fine-never once had I felt threatened by this disaster. I sat at my praxis cite as my family there listened to the radio list off updates on the numbers of the dead, I packed some clothes into a collection box for families with nothing, I read the headlines—and I felt deeply and prayed for the people who are suffering here. But the sad reality is that I still know my own privilege, and as an American student here I am not in a position to suffer personally from a natural disaster. The lives that are lost are those who live in conditions that aren’t dignified for human life, the people with nothing now are the ones who hardly had anything to lose as it was-people who live on the side of mountains because it is the only land left to work on. I sat at a community mass that Sunday and heard Dean Brackley’s homily as he told the people “this is not a natural disaster, it is a human disaster” it is a disaster that we have allowed people to live in areas, in homes, in situations, that are so fragile, so easily swept away. And that same Sunday another community had prepared for its long anticipated celebration of the martyrs—they had gotten up early to make food to share at a beautiful party in which they could recognize this legacy of hope and solidarity that these men and women had left behind. A few of my friends later told me how touched they were as they stood amidst this community that morning and listened to them unanimously decide to cancel the celebration of the martyrs and walk together with the food they had prepared into the nearby rural area of Las Nubes to meet the needs of their neighbors. It was so clear that to talk about solidarity would mean nothing if you weren’t living it. For many of us that story, more than any activity or prayer service in memory of the martyrs showed us what they have left here. It lives out Romero’s quote spray painted on the sides of abandoned buildings of San Salvador:
“If you kill me, I will rise again in the people.”
At the end of October we had our vacation, in which I spent a beautiful and adventurous 5 days in Belize with 5 girls from my program. A few highlights:
I had a brief (and slightly less threatening but nevertheless stressful) experience as an apparent illegal immigrant in Guatemala (story later…) swam with headlamps through a cave, held a boa constrictor around my neck, survived a 360 degree flip/face-plant while tubing with an overly enthusiastic Belizean guy, visited Mayan ruins, snorkeled, enjoyed the randomness of conversations with fellow hostel guests (mostly from France and Germany) and realized that Belize by far beats El Salvador as the hottest country I have yet to visit (didn’t think it was possible…)
The following weeks filled up with classes, soccer, praxis days, reflections, and what seemed like less and less time to really think about what is happening. My reflection time happens on the grimy walk to the UCA, in quick, cold showers, and on long bus rides to Mariona-passing by tiny garage like homes and long reaching fields of sugar cane.
Before I knew it my dear friend Maggie was here to visit me! It seemed odd to look back over the semester; I had always held this far off image of the day I’d have a visitor—when I would be the one sharing this place rather than the one with all the questions, the day I would stand with my American family and Salvadoran one in the same space. She arrived on the day of the Casa talent show, which felt like the perfect summary of my experience in community here. There were goofy group dances (including a perfect group rendition of the dance at the end of the movie Little Miss Sunshine) original poetry, live music, and even some unexpected drag queens. My house (all women) wrote and performed our own spoken word poem (like slam poetry) about our experience here, which brought down the house. The day before the show I had honestly believed I could get away with not opting to sing anything at the show, but the women in my house wouldn’t let me get away with it that easy. I had sat around trying to think of what I could possibly force myself to sing, knowing that I would have no accompaniment or time to prepare (not to mention that singing in front of groups is still high on my fear list.) What I really love about being here is I’ve adopted more of a willingness to do things that the little voice in my head thinks are just a little too scary (see the aforementioned swimming in cave/boa constrictor encounter) Now, unless a part of me screams “that is a terrible idea!” I can hear another little voice that says “why not?” –and I must say, we are starting to chat quiet often.
So in the end I stood up before a much larger crowd that I had anticipated (probably about 60 people, US and Salvadoran students alike) and in nervous Spanish explained the meaning of the song I chose to sing, “May I suggest” by Susan Werner. I remember looking out to Maggie, and all of my close friends here who were just smiling as I sang—and as nervous as I was, I was never so happy to share a song.
Just two days after Maggie’s departure my dad flew in on his way home from Uruguay to join me and my community for the activities in memory for the Jesuit martyrs of the UCA. Again, I had the joy of getting to share this space—my friends here eagerly awaited the arrival of the famous “Frank” and my dad finally got to meet my heroic meditation guru, Oti, and Salvadoran father-figure, Lolo, among others. It felt surreal to finally be walking through the streets around the UCA with my dad and eight thousand Salvadorans holding candles and singing. Earlier on in the day I had been informed that I was picked to represent my program by reading a petition at the vigil mass. A part of the old Maura voice said that you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to read in Spanish in front of 8 thousand people at the most important mass of the year, but luckily another part realized that it was more than an honor, but an incredible gift to be able to take part in that—such an amazing gift that being terrified didn’t justify refusing. Although in that moment I was entirely too afraid to look out from the stage into that mass of people-I stepped off and walked back into the crowd feeling more a part of it than I ever could have imagined.
Both of my years at SJU I have travelled to the vigil in Georgia on this same week in remembrance of the martyrs in El Salvador. I remember feeling this pull to come here, to be even closer to that beautiful remembrance of the lives lost in this country- and the hope found in that sacrifice. Finally being present for those events was amazing, but I realized that what meant most was that the people here have been showing me how to remember the martyrs every day since I’ve arrived. I think our tendency in the US is to create one special day that highlights something but forget to live that out in the everyday. Here, the martyrs faces are painted on the murals we pass on the highway and their names are sung in every popular song—Romero’s face is framed on every tiny kitchen wall, it smiles back at me from t-shirts and prayer cards. “La esperanza de los martires,” the hope of the martyrs, is a Salvadoran favorite phrase…it seems to be the air that people breathe here. Twenty years after the deaths of the Jesuits it seems like life here is still so hard for so many people, but instead of giving in it seems the people are even more willing to pick up that cross of the martyrs and carry it for each other. (This seems a little ambiguous and cheesy…I’ll explain a bit…)
The week that the worst of the floods hit El Salvador we started getting a lot of calls and messages asking if everyone in the program was OK. I remember being surprised, because I hadn’t even thought to call and reassure anyone that I was fine-never once had I felt threatened by this disaster. I sat at my praxis cite as my family there listened to the radio list off updates on the numbers of the dead, I packed some clothes into a collection box for families with nothing, I read the headlines—and I felt deeply and prayed for the people who are suffering here. But the sad reality is that I still know my own privilege, and as an American student here I am not in a position to suffer personally from a natural disaster. The lives that are lost are those who live in conditions that aren’t dignified for human life, the people with nothing now are the ones who hardly had anything to lose as it was-people who live on the side of mountains because it is the only land left to work on. I sat at a community mass that Sunday and heard Dean Brackley’s homily as he told the people “this is not a natural disaster, it is a human disaster” it is a disaster that we have allowed people to live in areas, in homes, in situations, that are so fragile, so easily swept away. And that same Sunday another community had prepared for its long anticipated celebration of the martyrs—they had gotten up early to make food to share at a beautiful party in which they could recognize this legacy of hope and solidarity that these men and women had left behind. A few of my friends later told me how touched they were as they stood amidst this community that morning and listened to them unanimously decide to cancel the celebration of the martyrs and walk together with the food they had prepared into the nearby rural area of Las Nubes to meet the needs of their neighbors. It was so clear that to talk about solidarity would mean nothing if you weren’t living it. For many of us that story, more than any activity or prayer service in memory of the martyrs showed us what they have left here. It lives out Romero’s quote spray painted on the sides of abandoned buildings of San Salvador:
“If you kill me, I will rise again in the people.”
